The Golden Ritual
The smell of the rotting turnip was the first thing to break the silence of the infirmary, a pungent, earthy breath that seemed to rise from the very floorboards where you had been dragged. You lay on your back, your limbs heavy with the specific, leaden exhaustion of a fever that had no name in the common tongue, and you watched the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that pierced...
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